Giorni Dispari
by enneh
Summary: Italy recalls a brief moment when he didn't recognise Germany as a friend and tries to understand the reasons behind it.  One-Shot, hinted at gerita.


Gonna upload this before I tweak it any more. Two uploads in one day, say whaaat.

If you get the historical reference, that's great. But you don't need it to understand this piece. It's vague; this fic is not at all intended to accurately represent or replicate that particular event, so please don't read into it too seriously. Thank you.

Rated T for mild violence. Enjoy~

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><p><strong>Giorni Dispari<strong>

'I'm not sure if I like it...'

'Why?'

'I don't know, I just...'

Italy tilted his head to one side, surveying his new kitchen from a fresh angle as if that would make things any different. It only served to put a kink in his neck. He rubbed the sore spot, wearing his best smile as Germany waited patiently for his answer.

'It's nothing. Actually, I like it a lot.'

'You just said you didn't.'

The gruff groan at the end of Germany's sentence sent a shiver down Italy's spine.

'But I do! I was just looking at it in the wrong way, that's all,' he insisted, waving his hands as if this would hit his point home any more than the volume of his voice did. 'And besides, this would be the perfect place to cook pasta!'

Searching in one of the large cupboards beneath the bench-top stove, Italy pulled out a large, deep pan, dropping it onto the gas ring. He presented this sight to Germany – him standing before the wide bench with his arms outstretched, in a narrow strip of floor created by the kitchen island – hoping it would iron out the creases left by his uncertainty before. After all, it wasn't Germany's fault. He didn't exactly remember. And Italy didn't expect him to. It was just a moment –

'Well, only if you're sure.'

Italy nodded, finding that he'd lost his voice. Luckily, Germany didn't notice. He sighed, resting the tool belt he'd been wearing throughout the week in order to fit the kitchen onto the nearby bench. The black marble glimmered beneath them, marred with dust and flakes of sawn wood.

'I have to go now –'

'Don't you want to stay for pasta?'

'I'd love to, but I'm a little busy.'

'Then I'll see you tonight!' Italy responded happily, lifting the pan over to the sink so he could fill it with water.

'What makes you so sure of that?' Germany asked, caught between leaving the house and stepping into the yard. He then smirked, already prepared for the answer he was going to receive.

'Well, if I have a nightmare and... your bed at your house is much comfier than mine is –'

He cut Italy off with a wave of the hand, 'Right. See you, then.'

'Bye bye, Germany! Grazie!'

He stood at the window, waving until Germany disappeared from sight beneath the rolling green hills. He felt his frown growing heavier, and the hunger for pasta he'd felt barely moments ago diminishing into nothing but a full ache at his stomach. Germany's company made him happy, it always had. But he was sure that this wasn't a reaction to loneliness. Italy was excited at the prospect of being able to feel his friend's warmth beside him that night. Yet today... he was also afraid of it.

He didn't have the heart to tell Germany how much this new kitchen reminded him of Greece's.

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><p>The kitchen island, constructed from the cool grey stone that made up the surrounding walls, didn't make a good sleeping place. Italy realised this barely seconds after lying on it. Resting his head against the chilly surface, he hugged his knees to his chest. He tried to remember home. Maybe that would help him sleep. But then, he wondered if it even mattered if he slept anyway. It was all over now. Every time he thought about it, Italy felt his heart constricting. A sore pain settling there and refusing to budge, no matter how many times he told himself that this couldn't be helped.<p>

And just because they weren't working together any more, that didn't mean Italy had to betray Germany at all. He just had to keep out of it now. Lifting himself onto his feet, he leant against the structure, folding his arms and sighing. He hated waiting around. He hated not knowing what he was meant to be doing. Italy was cold and hungry.

But he shook his head, shook those feelings away. He couldn't keep doing this! Clenching his fists, he promised himself for the tenth time that day that he was going to be strong. It was the least he could do for himself. Italy was going to work harder than usual, he was. Patting down his trousers, he felt his knife heavy in his pocket. The heel of his boot knocked his rifle to the floor as he turned his foot out. Picking it up from the ground, he put it onto the bench, trying to work out a good way to slot it over his head so that it wouldn't do too much damage to his hair.

Then there was a noise. A scuffing of a shoe against the floor? A footstep? Something like that? Italy pulled the rifle towards him, the scraping noise disrupting the buzzing silence that had been left in the wake of the mystery sound. He swallowed back his nerves, pressing his dry lips together and crouching slightly so that he was hidden behind the stone island. His heart throbbed and thudded, his palms sweaty from the anticipation. A sweat that ran cold all over when a shadow fell across the doorway into the kitchen. Just as his legs started to tremble from the ache at his thighs, he realised that the person coming for him was no stranger. But that didn't dissipate the nerves he felt.

He couldn't hide from his former ally forever, though. They'd worked together. They'd been good friends. Italy believed they could see each other through this, just like they had those other times.

'Oh, Germany. I'm glad to see you -'

'More glad than I am to see you, then.'

Before Italy could think of what to say next, he caught the flashing movement of Germany's hand raising. Just as a clear bang burst through the quiet of the kitchen, Italy dropped behind the island to avoid the shot. He was quick to reappear however.

'Germany, wait – you're not thinking straight –'

'I'm giving you an option.' He still had the pistol raised, his frame behind it shaking. 'Surrender. Or don't.'

Italy felt that familiar sensation. The one where it felt as if all of his organs were jumping up at once. And it was thanks to Germany's shouting. He tried to suppress a shiver, frantically searching his scrambled thoughts for the answer he needed.

'You just have to leave –'

'You know that I can't!'

'But there's no way for me to leave now,' Italy cried, remembering how wary the Allies were around him. They'd left him here at Greece's house, with no way of getting back out.

'If you just leave, then –'

'I'm under order. You're running out of time.'

Germany was different, Italy realised. He'd been different for a while now, but this was something else. He was out of breath... weary, but still trying to stand tall despite everything. And he had that look in his eyes. Vacancy. His eyes glassy and cold. Germany had become a puppet. He wasn't himself. And Italy was sure that, if the true Germany could see what he was doing, he'd feel ashamed.

Another shot, only this time it narrowly missed his shoulder. Without thinking, Italy raised his own weapon and fired back – the bullet hit the wall beside Germany, blowing dust into the air and sending parts of the stone clunking to the floor. The scattered debris crunched like bones beneath Germany's boots as he approached Italy, his weapon raised, all expression absent from his face.

Italy began to shake, no longer sure of what he should do. He dropped his rifle to the floor, lowering his head and standing straight behind the stone island. Even though his frame was wracked with shivers, he refused to move. He ignored his sinking heart, the way it pounded so heavily in his chest that it echoed in his head. The way that the blood in his body seemed to drain right down to his feet. Before Germany reached him, he pulled the blade from his pocket. In the steel, he caught a reflection of his own ashen face.

He didn't want to hurt Germany. And he knew Germany didn't want to hurt him. Not really. And as soon as Germany's hands were at Italy's collar, his strength lifting him away from the floor almost entirely, the handle of the knife slipped from his sweat-slicked fingers. It clattered onto the floor, making Italy wince at the sound. The scraping of the steel against the stone made it feel as though the blade was cutting into his chest. It may as well have been puncturing his skin, slicing through his flesh.

'I gave you a choice –'

'Germany, _no_ - !'

'Traitor!'

The violent shaking left his head pounding, the blood rushing and bearing behind his eyes along with the pain. Just when he felt as though his neck might snap, he was aware of falling. His back hit the floor hard, a resounding _smack _slapping the air. Italy felt all of his breath rushing out of his lungs at once, leaving him gasping and desperate. He tried to ignore the bruising at his hip, the way his mouth tasted metallic, like copper. Blood.

There was a click, the coldness of the gun's barrel against his forehead. Italy looked up, his eyes stinging with tears. Whimpers followed rasping coughs; he could no longer control the shivers of fear that ran rampant across his body. Germany leaned over him, drowning him in shadow. He smelt of dank sweat, his breathing laboured and heavy.

'Germany, please. You can stop,' Italy whispered breathlessly.

With a lot of slowness and care, he moved his hands to Germany's shoulders. Although it frightened him to do so, he looked straight into his eyes. And didn't look away.

'You don't have to do this anymore.'

There was a flicker of movement in his friend's eyes, the hardened blue of his irises appearing to melt into a softer look. His expression eased from stern to uncertain, his frown lines fading away completely. Italy searched his gaze, looking for that old familiarity and kindness. What he'd seen when they fought side-by-side. The same look he perceived hiding behind Germany's serious countenance whenever he'd messed up or disobeyed orders. It had always been there, of that Italy was sure. It was only in those moments of madness – when Italy sensed Germany's strings being pulled too tight – that the intimacy he recognised disappeared.

Germany's muscles tensed. For a moment, a heavier pressure was applied to the barrel at Italy's forehead. He gripped the material of Germany's shirt. Unable to stand staring into the eyes of a friend lost to him, he closed his eyes tight. Patterns of red swirled with black, an overbearing heat tingling with his strained, screwed up facial muscles.

'Germany...!'

'Stop.'

Italy opened his eyes, dispersing the few remaining hot tears over his cheeks. His palms stung from his nails digging in so tightly, and the last of the breath he'd held shuddered past his lips.

'We'll stop.'

Germany moved away from Italy, dropping his pistol to the floor and standing up to his full height. Italy remained where he was for a moment, bewildered. Even though Germany had moved away, even though it was all over... the smell of the rotting flesh of his own people stung his nostrils, his skin was still drenched by a cold sweat that ran over the fresh, aching bruises on his back and hips. But Germany stood there, his hand outstretched, waiting for Italy to take it. He sat up, hindered by pain. And gently took Germany's fingers in his.

'Is... it over?'

But Germany didn't say anything. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and, whilst propping one between his lips, offered the pack back to Italy. Gingerly, he took one.

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><p>Italy opened his eyes with a start, the warm wetness of tears sprinkled across his lashes. He could distinctly taste the dryness of smoke at the back of his throat, making his mouth feel as though it was filled with a thick smog. He rolled over, faced with Germany's back. Italy reached out, and in an effort not to wake him, gently moved his fingers across the black material of Germany's vest. Just to feel the closeness he now longed for. He knew deep down that none of what happened had been meant. He knew that Germany hadn't been himself.<p>

As his fingertips reached the smoothness and warmth of Germany's shoulder, he hated to think of how burdening it must have been for his friend back then. For him to have had every muscle and bone dragged into such a frightful direction. But that's just how this life was. Italy himself was no stranger to feeling a change of fervour in his own soul.

'That tickles,' Germany complained, his voice gruff with sleep. He shrugged Italy away, burying his face deeper into the pillow.

'I'm sorry.'

What had meant to be normal speech came out as a whisper. Italy was aware of the strain against his vocal chords, matching the raw dragging at his throat that he often felt when he was resisting the urge to cry. He tried to swallow it down, but it only stung more.

'Hey. Are you alright?'

Seeing Germany sit up, Italy quickly turned around. 'Yes, I'm fine.'

'Another nightmare?' Italy didn't need Germany's sardonic tone to tell him of how used to all of this his friend was. Especially since, usually, Italy's nightmares were nothing to complain about. 'What pasta did you run out of this time?'

'Farfelle,' Italy replied, not even needing to take a moment to think of a type of pasta that he loved. And with that, he relieved himself of the sobs that had been stacking up in his chest for the past few minutes.

Germany sighed. As he turned onto his side, Italy turned at the same time, burying his face in Germany's chest. They lay like that for a while. Italy snuggled closer, getting rid of the small gap that had separated them. He felt Germany tense up in response, his shoulders stiffening even though he reached out to hug him in return.

'Well, don't cry,' he eventually said.

'Mmhm.'

Italy sniffed, making an effort to hold back the sorrow. His face felt hot, his cheeks damp from tears. But even though he was uncomfortably warm from the strength of his crying and lying so close to another, he didn't want to move. Somehow, he felt as though he owed this understanding to his friend. He owed it just as much as he needed the comfort.

'...Goodnight, Germany.'

There was a pause, in which Italy feared that he may be asked to explain himself. He closed his eyes, wishing his body to relax into sleep even though he felt more alert than ever. He felt his chest jumping from hiccups. The reply eventually came.

'Goodnight, Italy. Sleep well.'


End file.
